"Was it a vision, or a waking dream?"
Kitsilano is a beautiful name for a beautiful neighborhood. Kits for short - sort of sounds like Keats, I like that. We walk through the streets as the snow keeps falling - soft, slow, giant snowflakes dance around us, and the rest of the world is hidden away. There's just Kitsilano and us, and at that moment I feel like we really are just - I've wanted to say it for a while, so I will - just two people in love, going out for some Sunday afternoon shopping. We took a strange road to get here, but there's no place I would rather be.
Except of course I am not really there. I am in my room (not for much longer), slowly peeling away layer after layer of stuff until there's nothing but a couple of suitcases worth of essentials. And then there's nothing more to do, nothing left but time and longing. And so I sit down and I stare into the distance and I think of a snowy afternoon in Kitsilano. I think of you showing me the places your life is connected to - a yoga studio, a coffee shop, a record store that you had no reason to go into before you brought me along. I think of your hand slowly extending an invitation on the side of the table, and of my hand reaching out to meet it, my fingers intertwining with yours.
I'm bad with hints. It's not that I don't get them, it's that I am constantly afraid what I'm getting isn't actually there. You could give me the most obvious one in the entire history of hints - and maybe you have already - and I would still find a way to second-guess myself. But after the conversation we had the night before, against all my expectations, it felt like you were taking every chance to throw me a line. Was that how you were trying to show me that you had made up your mind? Or were you just doing what I have been doing all along, embracing the daydream until it felt more real than the rest of the world beyond the snow curtain, the world where I was moving across the country, and you were... well, you were you. I don't know. I hope one day I will find out, and it won't be too late.
You had a slip of the tongue last night, as we reached the point in our strange little drunken game of guess-what-I-am-thinking where we were both too confused to go on. The image of you saying that simple three word sentence stayed with me even after you corrected yourself. And that day in Kitsilano, as you were helping me hail a cab so I could catch my train back to this empty room with five years of personal history neatly folded into a Kenneth Cole suitcase, all I wanted was to turn to you and repeat those words back.
"Let's go home."
Except of course I am not really there. I am in my room (not for much longer), slowly peeling away layer after layer of stuff until there's nothing but a couple of suitcases worth of essentials. And then there's nothing more to do, nothing left but time and longing. And so I sit down and I stare into the distance and I think of a snowy afternoon in Kitsilano. I think of you showing me the places your life is connected to - a yoga studio, a coffee shop, a record store that you had no reason to go into before you brought me along. I think of your hand slowly extending an invitation on the side of the table, and of my hand reaching out to meet it, my fingers intertwining with yours.
I'm bad with hints. It's not that I don't get them, it's that I am constantly afraid what I'm getting isn't actually there. You could give me the most obvious one in the entire history of hints - and maybe you have already - and I would still find a way to second-guess myself. But after the conversation we had the night before, against all my expectations, it felt like you were taking every chance to throw me a line. Was that how you were trying to show me that you had made up your mind? Or were you just doing what I have been doing all along, embracing the daydream until it felt more real than the rest of the world beyond the snow curtain, the world where I was moving across the country, and you were... well, you were you. I don't know. I hope one day I will find out, and it won't be too late.
You had a slip of the tongue last night, as we reached the point in our strange little drunken game of guess-what-I-am-thinking where we were both too confused to go on. The image of you saying that simple three word sentence stayed with me even after you corrected yourself. And that day in Kitsilano, as you were helping me hail a cab so I could catch my train back to this empty room with five years of personal history neatly folded into a Kenneth Cole suitcase, all I wanted was to turn to you and repeat those words back.
"Let's go home."